


Supervillan

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [29]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 03:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13332858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: The chess master’s throne.





	Supervillan

Everyone thinks that Dark does paperwork in his office. 

And for the most part, he does. He’s been given the job of administration, for some reason, and _someone_ has to keep all of them in line. He could have always handed it off to one of the Googles, but for whatever reason, he keeps it. There’s something comforting about the black and white, straight lines and worn-out stamps. 

Dark shuffles through the papers with practiced speed: a copy of the key to the office, the title that Mark’s promised them, eventually. A written statement from Wilford that he won’t set anything on fire, a copy of the Doctor’s medical license. An entire cabinet dedicated to his and Wilford’s criminal history, almost all cold cases. There’s still a few hard-boiled detectives after them, and Dark checks up on them from time to time, always making sure to throw them off their scent. 

There really isn’t that much to do in terms of work, though, and Dark still isn’t sure how he’s somehow convinced the others that _that’s_  what he spends all day doing, trying to look busy. He supposes that “paperwork” is vague enough for the others not to interfere, and that suits him just fine. 

But when the paperwork is done, and there’s an illusion sitting at his desk, scribbling nonsense to appear occupied? 

There’s a chess set by the wall, onyx and marble, always halfway through a game. No one disturbs it, practically unaware that it exists. (Wilford’s really the only one that questions it: he’s tried to bring it up, asked Dark to play a game, only to be met with pointed glares and cold silence.) It’s a state of limbo, a story interrupted.

Dark moves the pieces every so often, resetting the board, only to play out the same game each time.

The pawns are few, too many casualties littering the board. Dark knocks them over with distaste, even as they make up the body of his control over the chessboard. One or two are close to being promoted, but the white knight patrols the other side too powerfully to hope for much. 

The bishops move together, twins that never cross paths. The one to the left is blocked in by pawns on all sides, despite Dark’s best intentions; the one on the right steadily moves to the center of the board. Even so, to the trained eye, the white set has the advantage.  


But on second glance, white is checked. The white king sits eye to eye with the black queen across the battlefield, marble and onyx never collecting dust.

It’s not a checkmate, never a checkmate. Dark moves his queen into place and sighs, glaring at the chessboard. 

White could still block him, move its own queen into harms way. Dark looks away before it does, shoulders stiffening, fingers curling into fists. 

As his queen slides to make the check, there’s a click. With one last glance around him, Dark pushes the wall open and disappears. 

While his illusion snaps at the others with enough vitriol to force them out of the office, Dark slips past a corridor lit only by the faint glow of light from below. Once he’s down the stairs, the rest of the lights flick on. 

It’s inspired by those awful movies that Wilford has them watch on Saturdays, though Dark would never admit it. One wall is all screens, watching over the office with a level of detail that would make the Googles drool. Dark spares the screens a look to make sure that no one’s followed him down before turning to the rest of the room. 

Another wall is lined with notes: a few on the other Egos, their weaknesses, the way they take their coffee. Other notes are things he’d like to forget, but can’t afford to. Questions, people to check back up on, favors he’s owed. It’s a scoreboard, and Dark squints at it, taking stock. 

There’s a corner filled with singed junk that Dark hardly looks at as he stalks past, ignoring the overstuffed couch and memories piled high.   


Instead, he goes to sit in a chair that looks like a throne, looking over the screens, fiddling with the office’s security. His aura thumps against the walls, swirls around the rafters, finds its way into the vents with a sharp whistle. Dark doesn’t mind– after all, this is the one place that she can run free. 

If she runs too free, after all, there’s a locked room a level down that Dark goes to on the worst of nights, filled with ripped clothes and cracked mirrors. 

While his aura’s gone, Dark spins smoke through his fingers, practicing the most delicate of movements. He doesn’t have the freedom that Wilford most often has, shooting walls and driving knives through plywood: he can allow himself to be imperfect, here, shooting at Markiplier merchandise tacked to the walls. 

He’s almost happy, almost at ease. 

And the screens flash static as he drops off to sleep, and his aura covers him with a spare, ripped blanket.

And Dark, for just one night, isn’t trying to take over the world, or worm his way into the White King’s heart. He’s content, the Black King safe in his castle, six feet underground. 


End file.
